**IMPORTANT** New thread rules: All new threads created should have the correct marking placed in its title. These are: [M] = Mature, [O] = Open for all, [F] = Full no more people, [I] = Invited Only and [C] = Closed. Please use them form now on

First Meeting

Jamie MacTavish was sat at the desk, growling slightly while he read over a difficult passage of his book. He gave up. Sighing, he placed the book on the table next to him, and stood up from the chair he had slumped on some hours earlier.

He walked over to the table with the whiskey decanter and poured himself a generous glass. Sipping it slowly, he enjoyed the familiar burn of the amber liquid as he drank. The burn reminded him of fond memories he had as a pup back in Scotland. His first drink; drinking until the wee hours with his brothers and friends; quick drunken fumbles with lasses in the stables. All fond and faraway memories.

After draining the last drops from his glass, he poured another and walked over to one of the large windows and looked out at the expansive gardens in front of him. The sun was starting to set. He was just thinking about setting off to the kitchens when he heard a noise behind him.

"Well now ye do." Darragh nodded firmly, just to reaffirm that this was definitely his spot and Jamie should never think of stealing it again.

Then he climbed up onto the seat, got comfortable between the cushions and unzipped his pencil case, ignoring Jaime in favour of finding the perfect pen of the many in his collection to use today.

"Dare, you need to stop running off ahead," another voice, with a much fainter brogue, called through the library.

A man, with the same fiery red hair, pulled back into a casual ponytail, ambled towards the two. "You bugging people again, Dare?" he questioned when he caught sight of the man stood besides his son. Really, his son could find someone out of thin air to bother if he tried.

Jamie looked at the man who had entered the room. Fiery red hair... He would've thought that he was a possible relative, if the stranger's accent had been Scottish.

He looked at the man and then to the boy, Darragh. Father and son he assumed, though the boy didn't smell as strongly as his father. A halfing. Interesting. He nodded to the unknown werewolf.

" He was'ne botherin' me," he said. "He just wanted tah get teh his spot."

He drained the last of the whiskey from his glass and walked back over to the table with the decanter on it. Placing the tumbler down on the table, he turned back towards the werewolf and glanced at the large grandfather clock. Half past five. Close to dinner time.

Dare shrugged his dainty little shoulders as he sifted through his pencil case, still looking for the pen he wanted to use.

Aodh rolled his eyes good-natuedly. "Children, aye?" he asked the Scot with a fond, affectionate sort of exasperation. Little children had their way of being exasperating little shits, but he loved his son nonetheless.

"Shift yer ass for yer pa." Aodh sat down behind Darragh, scooting until he had one leg propped up against the window, which Darragh immediately leaned against, and one stretched out off the plush seat, heel of his foot resting against the ground.